


You can't go back. Only death awaits you there.

by foxesinthevoid



Category: Dark Deception (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Christian Themes, Gen, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder, Poisoning, Spoilers, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23063713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxesinthevoid/pseuds/foxesinthevoid
Summary: A collection of Helen Bierce's thoughts as sifts through the sands of purgatory, mostly alone, occasionally with others. The morality of her position and her past come into consideration, and her humanity is called into question. Reflections of the past and what may come in the future merge into amalgamations of uncertainty as Bierce attempts to fill the time between encounters with those who visit her Ballroom. Can an eternity in purgatory truly change a person, or, is she right to question her humanity?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Nobody liked you, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> There is no correct order for any of these pieces. All works in this piece will be somewhat short, but I will attempt to upload them frequently. Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoy.

God, how she egregiously tore down those who entered her domain. She relentlessly regarded them as lesser, as pawns in her masterful game. As short-lived companions that kept time from warping around her, keeping the waking nightmares of purgatory away. Items that would be discarded by those in the levels of hell Malak offered to them, by terrors deeper than anyone could imagine. She has caught herself in this act before and has deliberately tried to force the opposite. Optimism opposed to pessimism in the face of a demon. But she has always fallen back into her old pattern, verbally abusing those who have aided her in getting closer to the power she needed. 

As of this point in the lapse between lost souls, the Pseudo-Demon had seen many people from her past. All of them horrifying amalgamations from the depths of her mind, all of them speaking at once in a long-forgotten ancient language. The last soul. A woman who had sold her soul for wealth, much like herself, had lost her life only partly into the journey. She had seen her, with twisting limbs bent every wrong way, and eyes that could see you from every angle. She wailed like an infant, and that had slowly transformed into the blaring of an air raid siren. Though the resident of the ballroom had seen worse, to know that the tables had turned caused a panic. She had talked, made every quip she could, criticized the woman and laughed at her failures. Now, she could not get a word in edgewise. She was forced to have two drills drive into her temples in the form of someone else’s constant insecurities. 

It had allowed for some thought. A moment of clarity between apparitions that struck her like a slap across the face, one where the individual fingers of one’s hand would linger on the cheek and leave an angry red message. 

The dehumanization of those who had walked this path with her, how she ripped down any self-esteem they might have had. She had driven such a deep wedge between her and the only other human contact she may have had for some time, and for what? So, when they inevitably fell into Malak’s hands, she would be able to deal gently with their passing into hell? She could have no possibility of getting her hopes up, developing human feelings for her fellow man, transition easier to the next willing participant, only to rinse and repeat. 

These were souls. Those referred to as idiots during her long history in this ballroom were humans that were as lost as she was. Humans that had likely made mistakes akin to her own. Now, she had elevated herself above them, and to herd them like sheep toward death. It was almost more terrifying to stew in this realization on the floor of the ballroom compared to the terrors she experienced between. She could rationalize half of the time that those apparitions were not real and that they could not hurt her. The things she had done, on the other hand, were very real. 

She was going to rot in purgatory for eternity, or she was going to turn herself over to Malak and deny someone else the chance to atone for what they had done in life. There would be no happy ending for her in either scenario. She would be left wondering why she drudged on if she did not care for those who ran the mazes. 

Yet, she stayed in the ballroom.


	2. So many fears... So many desires...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bierce questions whether the choices of the past must influence those in the future.

She had never spoken to anyone about what she would do, had she collected every piece of the Riddle of Heaven. The thought had existed alone, inside her mind for her to ponder. She had searched for the physical artifact during her final seven years on Earth and had gotten mighty close. It was much harder to find the pieces between Purgatory and Hell. One all the pieces had been collected; she would have the power to match Malak. She would be able to change anything at the flick of the wrist; she would be able to get everything she ever wanted. The same was offered to her during the sacrifice she had made to the demon. 

Not even a screen test. There were thousands of girls the same as her in the world, some more deserving in the producer’s eyes than her. No calls back. Nothing. Told to her face that she was not going to make it in the one area she had desired so, she found herself frightened at the prospect of never becoming an actress. 

Edgar was supposed to have made it easier, but his money could only do so much. The miserable living state between the two of them had caused her life to nosedive to the ground, leaving her to drag herself from the wreckage while her husband played dress up in a faux-satanic cult. The garden lit up with chanting and call-girls, while she lived in her own personal hell. He was a brute, a tyrant; he had become so successful because of his cruel ways, as business was always cutthroat. Why these situations always spill into individuals’ personal life is a question that has yet to be answered. May it be power or personality trait, she knew that she was being treated rather poorly. 

The stranger at the manor that night, Victor, scoffing at her husband’s antics, telling her of dark magic while the gin swirled throughout her bones and caused the moments of anguish to dissipate as the liquor usually did. His words of mystique and wonder-filled her head with ideas. She had honest talent as an actress, she could outshine any of the girls at the studio, why should it not be her that succeeds? If she needed any help from otherworldly deities, surely, they would see her potential too, would they not? Victor had her convinced the next day when she had received a call for her first screen test. She would have to convene with a demon in order to reach her full potential. 

She had never reached her full potential as an actress. She had been incredibly famous throughout North America and Europe; she had been what every studio had wanted for years. She could have whatever she wanted, especially after she had done away with Edgar. She could return. She could rule the silver screen for as long as she wanted, living the dream that she had given everything for once again. 

There was also someone who would never live to see their eighth birthday because of her dream, there were many sleepless nights and anguished cries into the darkened halls of her manor. An empty void in her chest where she had mortally maimed her own morality. 

Seven years and one day, every single day she lived her dream for every day the sacrifice had lived before her demise. Every year that she was adored on the screen she had so desperately prayed for, traded for someone else’s. Not only another human life but one that could not truly understand what was happening. To understand the gravity of their own sacrifice, to know why they were in pain, the sacrifice had not a clue. To understand only a fraction of that terror was to sit in the emptiness of the ballroom with the assorted pieces of nightmares, collected from her own living moments. 

If every piece of the Riddle of Heaven was collected, she had no clue what she would do with it. That day was never coming, and she was going to be stuck here forever. However, if that day was to come, she had not the faintest idea of what she would choose. Would she find herself acting out of sheer impulse, or would the implications of what would come with her whims overtake her thoughts? It did not truly matter in her own waking moments what happened to others, as it would not impact her. She could simply not care about the lives she destroyed, as it would never leak into her glamourous life, that was what security was for. She could live out many more years than seven and a day, everything she had ever wanted in life. 

These thoughts were also followed by thoughts about the moral implications in a vicious cycle. The moral reasoning was trailed by a round of convincing herself that those thoughts did not matter, that she was all she should look after. Over and over, spiralling downward back into the abyss of purgatory, only to open her eyes in the darkness of the ballroom. Sometimes with another human soul for her to greet, one that would likely find themselves appalled at this pseudo-demon's moral compass and reasoning. 

Knowing that most of the individuals that walked the ballroom floor had committed similar atrocities in their own lives, Bierce never could equate herself to them. They likely had been pulled here to reconcile with family before taking their place in hell. Maybe, to change the course of history. Or, to simply correct a mistake they had made. A terrible, terrible mistake. Here was this demon of a woman, questioning the benefit to herself. 

Who cared what they thought; who cared about their own moral compasses? Why was this line of prodding and prompting plaguing her during her time alone? It did not matter, none of it did. None of this time spent in purgatory would matter once she was back on Earth. Once she had reached her full potential, once she could perform for more than just the wayward souls that joined her. If she was to think of herself as the demon she was, she needed to act like one. To put this ideal future as the priority, and to forget about her past. 

It would be so much easier if she was not left to her own devices. If the demon’s own demons did not dance through the ballroom as effortlessly as they did.


	3. It's been so long...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bierce recalls one of the hired help that lived in her manor.

Midnight, the striking of the clock rang throughout the many halls of the manor. Between the loudness of the striking of twelve, her heavy breathing and the frenzied footsteps on the marble were apparent as she rushed toward the distant chanting in the Ballroom. Lightning flashed, and the thunder accompanied the chiming of the clock. She nearly knocked over many priceless items as she ran, knowing that she would greatly pay with her life if it meant ceasing what was about to happen. Sweat had plastered the messy brown hair to her brow, as she was experiencing a level of adrenaline known only to those who’s child was in danger. Almost nothing could stop her from pushing herself to the limits of exhaustion to try and rectify the situation, and as the clock stopped the chimes that reverberated around the manor, she found herself at two wooden doors. The entrance to the Ballroom, locked from the inside. As if chains had been wrapped around her heart and pulled tight, she reefed on the handle, attempting to get it to budge from its static position. 

While she had been in the garden, attending to the guests that Edgar had been entertaining. Her daughter had long been asleep in the servant’s quarters. Now she had assumed her strategic placement had been a distraction, and that seeing a cloaked figure walk through the courtyard with a child, her child, had been a mistake on the other party. This could have foiled her plan, the mistress of the estate’s plan, had she not had the forethought to lock the door. 

Though, of course, the door never budged. The imposing lights from under the door ran red, and she knew that darkness resided within the Ballroom at this moment. She rattled the handle once more, letting out a cry of sheer agony, unable to reach her destination. The ritual inside never stopped, regardless of her pleas, and she knew she had limited time to save Madeline. The chanting beyond the door had become more intense, the lights growing brighter. 

The maid shrieked, slamming her hands against the door, her own screams now mingling with the screams of her own daughter. They were muffled, but they certainly belonged to her. The chanting had turned to yell, the screams of the sacrifice in the Ballroom intensifying, and she could practically feel her daughter’s tears roll down her own cheeks as she continued to beg without any change to her dire situation. The screams became choked and died slowly, painfully. Lightning captured the feeling of true pain in the grieving mother’s face, thunder playing an accompaniment to her wails. The maid crumpled to the marble in a heap against the door, still screaming for Madeline. The light from under the door bathed her, casting a hue of rust against her. She was quickly apprehended by those in on the operation, carried away kicking and screaming, still trying to reach beyond the door. 

This is when the doors open, and the mistress of the house is in plain view. A black cloak covering her form, her eyes ethereal as she stared down the other. She was illuminated by the lightning that entered through the windows, displaying the blood that stained much of her hands, coating her slippers, streaking across her face. They made eye contact, Helen Bierce no longer resembling a human. 

Waking from the nightmare made a reality in her own personal purgatory, Bierce breathes life back into her form, screaming out into the empty Ballroom. Her terror echoed around the emptiness, and she curled her knees tightly into her chest. She had looked into her own eyes; she had seen what she had become. She put her head in her hands, inhaling sharply. She held this breath, forcing her eyes open. Her prison may be able to show her what she had become, but she had to grow jaded toward these feelings. If she was to leave this place, she would have to grind her teeth through every horrifying depiction she saw. 

Why were the tears still streaming down her face if she had convinced herself of this? Why was every breath a labour, and accompanied by ragged sounds escaping her chest? To feel the fear of losing a child when one has never had one could break the human psyche, to know that you were the one to kill the child hurts even more. Madeline. Seven years, and a day. Every day she lived her dream, it was a day that the child had lived before being cut short. 

God, did she wish she had something to drink.


End file.
